


Thanksgiving at Bobby's

by red_river



Series: The Other Guardian [12]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Family, Gen, Humor, M/M, Pre-Slash, Romance, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-27
Updated: 2013-11-28
Packaged: 2018-01-02 19:38:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1060788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/red_river/pseuds/red_river
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam, Dean, and Castiel drop in on Bobby for a family Thanksgiving, complete with too much pie, whispered wishes, and the unmistakable hush of hearts getting closer, one centimeter at a time.  These two may be idiots, but Bobby's not. Two-parter, Sam and Cas centric, slash or pre-slash.  Part of the Other Guardian 'verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the next story in a mild AU/canon divergence series called The Other Guardian 'verse. In brief: after Dean is raised from Hell by Castiel, an entire year passes before the Lilith rises and the seals start to break. During that time, Castiel is assigned to watch over the Winchesters, and finds himself growing closer and closer to Sam.
> 
> This story follows "Darkness Rising," but can be read by itself, as it's mostly just a family Thanksgiving story. It also leads into the large Christmas story, up next in the Other Guardian 'verse, which will be called "Home for the Holidays."
> 
> Notes: Cas and Sam centric, slash or pre-slash; Dean is picky and Bobby is a smug bastard. Two-shot.

 

**Thanksgiving at Bobby's  
**

Bobby Singer possessed an unusual number of books. They had conquered most of the flat surfaces in his house, and a good number of surfaces that were not flat, and were not arranged in any system Castiel could understand, though he had been warned by both Sam and Dean about moving them. The knowledge of the angels was infinitely more vast, of course, and there was little in Bobby's books that Castiel did not already know, except for the few works of fiction scattered among the piles, more than one of them being used to level a piece of furniture with uneven legs. But the books intrigued him all the same, the human perspective always so much smaller and more personal than the pure facts in Castiel's mind—so as he listened to the rhythmic chopping of potatoes in the kitchen, the dull click of knives against cutting boards and the brush of hands pushing the cubes into a metal bowl, Castiel walked through the other rooms of the ground floor and studied the books, searching for nothing in particular. Several times he picked one up to page through it, but he was careful to return it to its former spot; the organization held no meaning for him, but humans were more creative, irrational creatures than angels, and he had no intention of upsetting Bobby. Dean had accomplished that several times, and the result seemed unfailingly to be loud, even if the complaints varied.

The books were all different sizes and shapes, from volumes with torn paper covers that fit easily within the spread of Castiel's fingers to heavy leather-bound tomes with cracked seams that would have required two hands to lift, if his were normal human hands. One of those books stood out to the angel, perched at the edge of an overflowing shelf with its lined red cover extending far past the short paperbacks sitting next to it; Castiel pulled it out and held it open in one palm, flipping slowly through the pages. The solidity of the books fascinated him almost more than their content—knowledge for humans was such a physical thing, the texture of the paper and the play of light over the words, and Castiel tried to absorb the sensation of turning pages, his fingers hesitating at each corner as he read the exorcisms, blessings and recipes for charms, page after page of old remedies on brittle yellow paper. Then Castiel flipped one more and stopped abruptly, staring at the next page with narrowed eyes.

The next page was covered in crayon. Instructions for blessing a silver knife were still legible, barely, in the cramped black scrawl that had filled all the previous pages—but over and around them the page was overtaken by an explosion of rainbow colors, red and orange stick figures and a large blue heap filling every available inch of yellow paper. Castiel turned the book until the disfigured page faced him, and then he realized that the blue lump was the Impala, its four tires the most recognizable feature. Of the three stick figures, the largest was clearly Bobby, decorated with a misshapen hat and an orange scruff of beard, perhaps because there had been no brown. The smaller figures were Sam and Dean, set apart by the spikes on one large head and the flop of bangs around the other. Even if the artist hadn't signed his work, from the few scribbles he'd seen on napkins and discarded scraps of paper Castiel would have recognized the way that young Sam drew smiles, great curving grins that stretched past the stick figure faces—but the signature was there, and the angel tipped his head as he skimmed his thumb over the childish scribble in the bottom corner of the page, three capital letters with a backward S. The crayon felt cold under his finger, waxy green lines softening into the paper with the passage of time. He wondered if the blessing would eventually rise to the surface again, distorting the picture.

"Find something you like?"

Castiel turned to discover that Bobby had come up behind him, the older hunter leaning in the kitchen doorway with one hand braced against the frame. In the other he carried a paper bag full of long ears of corn. Bobby's eyes flitted to the book in his hands, and he squinted, trying to pick out shapes and words with eyes that were only growing older; then he snorted and stepped forward until he stood next to Castiel, the bag of corn swinging by its paper handle.

"Ah. That's Sam's work."

"Yes," Castiel acknowledged. He lingered for a moment over the signature, feeling the curve of the backward S against the pad of his thumb, before he withdrew his hand and held the book out to Bobby, turning the crayon so that it caught the light from the windows. "Why did Sam color in this book?" he asked. It had been his impression so far that children only colored on blank pieces of white paper, which seemed a better medium for their pictures anyway.

Bobby just shook his head, pushing his hat up from his forehead with the blunt end of his thumb. "That boy. Too smart for his own good, even when he was barely knee high." He nodded back toward the kitchen, where Castiel could still hear Sam chopping potatoes. "I was watching the boys for John one weekend—can't remember what fool thing he was up to, but it wasn't the first time. Dean was out in the yard—he'd found an old bike somewhere and he was riding it around like he was desperate to put his head through something—but Sam was only about three, I guess, since I was keeping him inside with me. Dean was being too crazy on that bike to watch out for pedestrians." Bobby reached out and raked one finger down the page, hesitating on the stick figure of himself. "Anyway. I got a call from another hunter who needed something looked up, so I set Sam up with some paper and a box of crayons, and I put this on the floor for him, you know, so he'd have something hard to color on top of. Next thing I know, I turn around and he's got the book open and he's going to town, like he was getting paid for it. Barely got him stopped before the next page was gone, too."

Bobby rubbed his fingers over one corner of the book until the pages separated, and then flipped the page, revealing an anti-possession invocation marked up with bars of thick green crayon. It took Castiel a minute to decide that they would have been trees, the tops just starting to spread out into leafless boughs, their green roots buried deep in the Latin words of the ancient prayer. Castiel turned the book so that the new page was facing him, but still he couldn't decipher the shapes at the top of the page, flat purple Ms growing smaller and smaller as they neared the edge of the paper. Bobby shifted and the bag of corn swayed against his knee.

"That kid, though." Castiel glanced up to find a thoughtful expression on the older hunter's face, hardening for one moment into an old anger before it eased out again to bemusement. "He was all ready to be yelled at, but all the same he looked up at me and said, 'You said it was for drawling on.' Only logic argument I ever got from a kid too little to pronounce his W's."

Castiel flipped back to the first page. He studied the figures again—Bobby, Dean, and Sam, all smiling and holding hands, and the Impala, its windshield blank, the driver's seat empty. There was no John. Castiel wasn't surprised. He shifted the book until it rested against his stomach and stared down into Sam's crayon face, studying that broad smile and the eyes that were bright green dots, the same color as Dean's. An illustration of a silver knife in the smoke of burning herbs cut through his center. Castiel felt a small frown touch his lips.

"Did you try to remove it?" he asked, brushing one fingertip over the crayon Impala.

Bobby snorted under his breath. "Hell, boy. Crayon don't come off paper." Then he paused and shrugged under his plaid shirt and thick brown coat, the same kind that Sam wore—Castiel wondered how it had escaped him until this moment that Sam had modeled his clothes after Bobby, not Dean or his father. The older hunter touched the book with the back of his fingers and then pulled away, resettling his hat to hide more of his face. "Anyway… why bother. I can read it just fine. Wouldn't recognize the blessing anymore without it."

For a moment, they stood there without speaking, staring down at the old crayon marks and the blessing beneath them, the clash of black and color, a family of three figures and a hulking blue car—the same as they were now, Castiel realized, except that Sam was a little taller. Then Bobby pushed his shoulder once with the palm of his hand and walked off across the sitting room, heading for the door to the yard behind the house.

"Well, when you get done with that, go help Sam in the kitchen. He's only got about a hundred potatoes to mash. I gotta shuck this," he finished, hefting the bag of corn. Castiel glanced at him and then back at the book, his fingers curling around the cracked leather binding.

"Sam is…" Bobby paused in the other doorway and Castiel stared into the bright green eyes of the smallest stick figure, wondering what hazel would look like in crayon. He shook his head once. "Sam is different. He is very… unique."

He wasn't sure the words were quite right, but Bobby just huffed. Castiel decided it was a laugh as he watched the older hunter's lips quirk up in a smile. "You don't have to tell me that," he said. Then he turned and disappeared from the doorway, the pound of his boots growing softer with each step before they disappeared behind the snap of the screen door.

Castiel looked down at the picture once more. He smoothed his hand down the page, and as he touched it the paper lost its yellowed color, tears and creases repairing instantly at the brush of his grace until the book was as new again, except for the crayon figures that stood out brighter than ever on the pristine paper. He slid the book carefully back onto its shelf, its smooth leather spine glinting in the sunlight through the blinds—then he turned and made his way into the kitchen, wondering if Sam as he knew him, slightly taller, with darker, more complicated eyes, would be smiling like that, too.

 

.x.

The small back porch beyond the screen door was just sideways of the kitchen windows. From where he was sitting on the concrete steps leading down to the yard and the wrecks of dead cars, the bag of corn on one side and cast-off husks on the other, Bobby could see into the kitchen with a glance over his left shoulder, and he could hear everything through the half-open windows, from the rush of water in the sink to the clink of beer bottles every time the fridge was yanked open.

It wasn't like it was a secret—everyone in the house heard the slam of the screen door when he went out, and Sam and Dean had been out here with him before, painting the usual sigils or sometimes just having a drink in the night air, when the house got stuffy. But somehow nobody thought about it all the same, and nobody ever expected him to be out there. At least that was what Bobby had to assume, given everything he'd heard through those windows—countless Winchester arguments and the silence that always came before or after them, Sam's footsteps when he paced the kitchen, turning over some problem in his head, the click and rattle of the bottle cap popping off the first time Dean ever tried to steal a beer out of his fridge, right around his fourteenth birthday. Bobby had let him get the first sip into his mouth before catching him in the act, the better to scare that idea right out of him—and though it had only worked for a few years, Bobby could still remember the look of horror on that brash little hellion's face, his eyes so wide they were more white than green for a minute. The thought made him smile as he gripped a handful of corn silk and let it fall, the yellow and white threads drifting down to rest over his steps.

But the point was, Sam knew he was out there. He'd told Castiel specifically where he was going, though sometimes he wondered if the angel was really paying attention with more than a few brain cells. Bobby wasn't eavesdropping—he was just sitting on his porch. But he got the sense all the same that no one was aware of him as the clear snap of Castiel's footsteps moved into the kitchen and the rhythm of Sam's knife on the cutting board slowed, every chop through a potato suddenly taking twice as long.

"Sam."

"Hey, Cas."

Sam's tone was light, almost surprised, as if he hadn't been distracted as all get-out from the second Castiel stepped off the living room carpet onto the wood of the kitchen floor. Bobby wasn't sure from that tone whether Sam was nervous about something, or if he was just that excited to have Castiel at his elbow, watching him chop potatoes into fourths. He rolled his eyes either way.

"Did you need something?" Sam asked, his words coming through all the clearer when he cranked the faucet off and the sound of the water disappeared. It was quiet enough then that Bobby could hear Castiel shift his feet.

"Bobby told me to assist you," the angel said, tactful as usual. Bobby yanked the husk from another stick of corn and set the clean ear back in the bag, shaking his head. If that boy were any blunter he couldn't cut butter.

"Oh." Sam's voice was smaller than before, a little of the hopefulness gone, though Bobby doubted he was aware of it himself. He could almost hear the gears in Sam's brain churning, and in a second he was off and running, worrying himself into a frenzy over something he'd half made up in his head. "You don't have to, Cas. I mean, if you don't want to. Bobby wasn't trying to give you an order or anything—and there's not that much left to do, so if you'd rather go find Dean or something, I can just—"

"Sam."

Sam's diatribe came to an abrupt halt with that one word; Bobby waited in the silence, shucking corn and trying not to wonder, before his curiosity got the best of him and he turned far enough to glance over one shoulder at the kitchen window. Sam was still standing at the sink, his head turned away from Bobby—but Castiel had moved up until he was right at Sam's shoulder, one hand resting on Sam's back with the fingers just curling up against his neck as Castiel stared up at the younger Winchester with those piercing blue eyes. Bobby wasn't sure if the angel was suddenly telepathic, or if his hand on Sam's shoulder was enough to bring that boy's processing speed down from lightning fast to a moderate buzz—but whatever it was, it was just a few seconds before Sam ducked his head and gave a tiny, breathless laugh, and Bobby turned back to his corn, staring deliberately at an old junker pickup as he pulled the husks off.

"Yeah. Sorry. Um. You want to…" Bobby could imagine Sam staring around the kitchen now, trying to find something the angel knew how to do that wouldn't just make the whole process longer. He glanced up once more to see that Sam had turned to face Castiel, one hand fiddling in his hair. "Uh… I'm just working on the mashed potatoes, but I've got to cut them all first. You want to wash them for me? There are still five or so I haven't gotten to."

Castiel didn't say anything for a long while, the silence in the kitchen growing awkward even for Bobby out on the porch. Another backward glance showed Castiel just staring at Sam's chest and Sam biting his bottom lip, probably already tying himself up in knots over what he'd said wrong. Bobby turned deliberately back to his corn and warned himself to knock it off. He was nobody's chaperone here, and it was none of his business—he was just out here to shuck a few ears of corn. He gripped the tassels on the next one and pulled hard.

"Are those instructions meant to be taken literally?"

When the angel finally did speak, it wasn't to make things any clearer, at least not to Bobby. He stopped shucking for a second to figure out if he'd misheard. Sam seemed to be doing the same thing.

"What instructions? You mean, about the potatoes?" Sam asked. Castiel's feet shifted again.

"No. Your apron. Is it just for decoration, or am I truly intended to… kiss the cook?"

Bobby raised his eyebrows and picked up the last ear of corn. He'd forgotten Sam was wearing that apron—hell, he'd had it so long he'd almost forgotten his apron even said anything. He didn't remember the angel showing any particular curiosity about kissing anybody when Bobby had been wearing that apron the night before, dishing up the pre-Thanksgiving chili; he wasn't sure whether Sam had put that together or not, but the boy was off again, transforming instantly into a stuttering bundle of nerves.

"Oh. Um. No, it's just—uh. It's a joke, Cas. We gave it to Bobby years ago as a joke. It's just something people put on aprons because they think it's kind of funny, I guess… I don't really know why, actually. Um. But it's… yeah. So it's not…"

Sam trailed off with a nervous laugh, followed by more silence. Bobby resolutely kept his eyes on the last ear of corn, picking all the little silk threads out to keep himself from turning around. Then the kitchen floor creaked, and the faucet sang as it turned back on, the water hitting the sink like a jolt back to reality.

"Which potatoes should I wash?" Castiel asked.

Bobby rolled his eyes. Then he threw the last ear of corn back into his bag and got to his feet, stretching once over his head before bending to pick corn silk off his jeans. He had to get inside and boil this corn, or he was going to have done a lot of shucking for nothing, but as he looked once more through the kitchen window—Sam and Cas standing side by side at the sink with Castiel sneaking small, confused glances at the man next to him while Sam hid behind the fringe of his bangs, the tips of his blushing ears poking out through his hair—Bobby just shook his head, because they might be blind, but he sure as hell wasn't. Then he grabbed the screen door and pulled it open, heading into the shadows of the house with the bag of corn swaying in one hand.

Suffice to say, if he walked into that kitchen someday to find an angel kissing the cook, he wasn't going to be even a little surprised.


	2. Chapter 2

Castiel had his doubts about Thanksgiving. Sam had tried several times to explain the origins of the holiday, stumbling occasionally over the particulars of historical facts, but more than a celebration of survival and togetherness, Castiel had been left with the unsettling impression that what they were celebrating had a great deal to do with the subjugation of one human tribe by another, or possibly their decimation through the spread of disease. Sam had eventually retreated to calling the holiday a celebration of good fortune, which at least held some relation to the great platters of food he was laying out on the kitchen table, while Bobby pulled ever more things out of the refrigerator. Castiel had his private suspicions that Thanksgiving's true purpose was to celebrate gluttony by encouraging people to eat beyond their normal limits, and he wasn't entirely comfortable with that, gluttony being, after all, one of the cardinal sins. But he didn't get a chance to voice that before Dean reappeared in the kitchen with two extra chairs gathered from around the house, and then Sam was ushering him into one of them, seating him between the Winchesters and picking up his plate.

Castiel watched in mild fascination as dollops of macaroni salad, cranberry sauce, green beans and the potatoes he and Sam had mashed were arranged on his plate, followed by a piece of turkey. Sam set the plate down before him with a smile and Castiel looked silently up at him, studying the lines of his expression, so much more carefree here than when the angel checked in on them at a nameless roadside motel. He must have stared too long, though, because Sam paused with his own plate only half filled, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear and surrendering the mashed potato spoon to Dean's greedy hand.

"Hey, Cas. Do we need to say grace? I mean, would you like that?" he asked.

The other two members of the party seemed opposed to that idea—Dean groaned as his head flopped back onto the crown of his chair, and even Bobby looked slightly put out, though he chose not to say anything. Dean grabbed the bowl of bread crumbs Bobby had called stuffing and dumped a heap of it onto one side of his overflowing plate. "For crying out loud, Sammy," he said, shooting his brother an exasperated look. "Do you have to be a buzzkill every single day? God's neat, let's eat. There—you happy?"

Sam sent Dean a glare he steadfastly ignored, preferring to shovel stuffing into his mouth—but his annoyance faded as Castiel reached up and pressed a hand to his shoulder, drawing those thoughtful hazel eyes down to his. "It's all right, Sam," Castiel said. "Like all prayer, the most important aspect is that the sentiment be genuine. There's no point in… going through the motions."

He said the last words carefully, as the slang phrases he heard the Winchesters use all the time didn't always manifest correctly on his tongue—he decided he'd passed this time, because Sam relaxed under his hand, nodding a few times before reaching for the potatoes again. Castiel let his hand slip away as Sam finished filling his plate and sat down, tucking his chair up closer to the table. But before he picked up his fork, his hand slipped under the table and squeezed Castiel's knee. Castiel wasn't sure exactly what the gesture was meant to convey—but it felt very genuine, and he found himself strangely compelled to put his hand over Sam's and hold it there, under the shelter of his fingers. Sam pulled back before he made up his mind whether to give in to that instinct or not.

Once the meal began in earnest, Castiel's doubts about the sanctity of Thanksgiving only grew. Sam had said that the holiday revolved around thankfulness, which would seem to make sense with its name—but the attitude in Bobby Singer's kitchen seemed to be decidedly the opposite.

"What'd you do to these potatoes, Sam?"

Castiel had been imitating Sam, who was carefully taking one bite of potatoes and gravy, one bite of stuffing and turkey, and then one bite of turkey and potatoes in a complex food diversity ritual—but they both looked up at Dean's gripe, and Sam's eyes narrowed, his forehead furrowing as he watched Dean turn a cluster of mashed potatoes over on his fork. "What?" he asked, glancing at his own plate. Dean rolled his eyes.

"Where's the butter? You're supposed to put a shit ton of butter in mashed potatoes, so that they're all creamy and smooth. These are like potato clumps. The hell happened?"

Castiel wondered if that might be his fault—he had never mashed potatoes before, and while the physical strain of crushing them had been nothing, his technique had been persistently off, if the exceptionally polite and patient tone of Sam's voice were anything to go by. He turned to Sam to see if he should admit fault—but Sam had already gone on, pointing his fork at Dean with his eyebrows raised.

"You know what, Dean? I don't want any criticism from the guy who spent all day outside messing with his car instead of helping in the kitchen."

Dean took a huge bite of turkey and insisted on talking around it. "My baby needed some attention, and I _thought_ you had it covered. If I'd realized you were going to screw it up, I would have stayed in there to supervise. But who messes up potatoes, honestly? I'm sorry, Samantha—I know it's your dream, but you would make a crap housewife."

Castiel turned a bite of green beans over in his mouth, glancing between the Winchesters with a small frown. He wasn't always sure how to interrupt their bickering without just making things worse for Sam, which was the last thing he wanted—fortunately, it seemed Bobby was taking charge today, as he finally set down his fork and lifted his beer bottle into his hand.

"What are you moaning about, boy? The potatoes are fine."

Dean thrust his hand at the potato bowl like an accusation. "They're so dry, Bobby! You've gotta put more butter in them."

Bobby scowled and took a swig of his beer. "So put more butter in them. Butter dish's right there."

Dean grumbled under his breath about how it wasn't the same—but Bobby seemed to have the last word, because in the end the older Winchester stuck his fork in the butter and carved off a large square, crushing it deliberately into the puddle of gravy on top of his mashed potatoes. Castiel glanced over at Sam, the two of them sharing a look over the macaroni salad; then Sam slid some cranberry sauce onto a bite of turkey, and Castiel did the same, wondering why Sam ducked his head when the angel raised his fork to his lips.

Perhaps it wasn't socially acceptable to eat exactly what someone else was eating. Humans had such complex rules about food, it was difficult for Castiel to keep up.

Dean was fond of complaining, Castiel had decided after knowing him almost a year. It didn't take him very long to find something else to protest about.

"What the hell is this?" Dean took a momentary break from shoveling turkey and stuffing into his mouth, consuming great quantities of both primarily without chewing and reminding Castiel a little of a snake swallowing its prey whole, to hold his fork up to the light, squinting at the red liquid clinging to its tines. He gaped at it for a moment and then set the fork down, lifting his whole plate and tilting it toward Sam. "Cranberry sauce, Sam? Really? Why did you even make this? And how did it get on my plate?"

Sam barely glanced at his brother before returning to his forkful of pasta salad. "I don't know," he said under his breath.

Dean raised his eyebrows. "You don't, huh?

Sam shrugged. "Maybe some anonymous benefactor put it there so you don't get scurvy and have all your teeth rot out of your head."

Dean made a face as he prodded the wobble of cranberry sauce with his fork. "How's cranberry sauce gonna protect me against some pirate disease that you get from dirty hookers?"

Castiel frowned in confusion. Sam went farther, dropping his fork onto his plate and staring across the table at his brother with his arms crossed. "You're an idiot," Sam said.

"You're a bad cook," Dean shot back.

"And you're a potato snob."

"Boys." Bobby's voice cut easily through the banter, and both Winchesters turned to the older hunter at one end of the table, who shook his head as he rubbed a hand across his chin. "You want to tone the sibling routine down a hair? Technically we have company." He spared a look for Castiel, who simply looked back at him, pondering the tiny wrinkles around Bobby's eyes that belied his irritated tone—but his words seemed to have the desired effect, at least on Sam, who ducked his head and then turned in his chair until he was facing Castiel, an apologetic smile touching his lips.

"Sorry. Um. Do you need anything, Cas? Is everything… okay?" he asked, gesturing vaguely toward the angel's half-full plate. Castiel considered the question for a moment, his eyes flitting between the platters of food pushed up against each other along the length of the table, the contrast of colors and textures and the warring rims of mismatched bowls. Then he looked up at Sam again, titling his head gently to one side.

"I like the potatoes," Castiel said.

Sam's lips stretched into a full smile. Dean made a choking sound in the back of his throat.

"Wow—big surprise there. You two make me sick. People are trying to eat, you know."

"Really?" Bobby asked. "'Cause I was under the impression that people were too busy bitching to be eating anything in the first place."

Castiel was fond of Sam's laugh. He liked the sound of it, and the way it brightened his eyes, bringing out the spark of green buried deep under flecks of hazel. Dean didn't seem to be as pleased with it, extrapolating from the way he kicked at Sam under the table. But that didn't stop Sam from sharing a private smile with Bobby, as Dean began another tirade over his third helping of stuffing, and it didn't stop Sam's gaze from drifting back to Castiel's, his dimples standing out on his cheeks the way they always did when he was laughing at Dean. Castiel still wasn't sure what it meant, or even what he wanted it to mean—but without overthinking it he reached under the table and pressed his hand over Sam's knee, in the same spot where the tall hunter had touched him before. Sam's laughter trailed off and tapered into a smile, then an expression Castiel couldn't read, his bottom lip barely caught between his teeth—but he didn't shake off the angel's hand, and he didn't look away, either, holding Castiel's eyes for the first time all day. Castiel squeezed his leg, softly. Then he pulled back and let Sam return to an argument with Dean, and spent the rest of the meal wondering whose heartbeat he had felt leap up in that brief moment of contact: his or Sam's.

 

.x.

Sam had something on his mind. Castiel couldn't read Sam well enough yet to guess what it was just by observing him, but he had spent enough time studying the minutiae of Sam's expressions to recognize by now when the other man was preoccupied. They had been left to clean up the kitchen together, Sam loading the dishwasher while Castiel wiped the table and counter with a damp rag; he wasn't accomplishing very much, though, because he kept finding himself watching Sam instead, scrutinizing the slow movement of his hands as he rinsed every dish in the sink, the pause before he slotted it into place in the dishwasher. He doubted Sam was even aware of it, but Castiel was having trouble focusing on anything else; the hand in which he was holding the wet rag stilled every time he remembered the feeling of a pulse racing under his fingertips. He only managed to return to his task when Bobby stepped into the kitchen, silverware rattling against the dishes in his hands.

"Here's the last of it, Sam," the older hunter said. He gave the ice cream dishes from the night before a cursory rinse in the sink and then handed them to Sam, his hands drifting to rest of his hips as he watched them being maneuvered into the few open spaces on the top tray of the dishwasher. "Don't know how those got under the living room couch, but I have a feeling Dean was involved." Sam gave a half smile, the one he always gave when he was distracted, and Castiel felt the rag stop moving in his hand again, catching on the metal lip of the battered sink. Bobby spared them each a glance before twisting his head in a survey of the room. "Where is your brother, anyway?" he asked.

Sam blinked as he lifted his head from the dishwasher, one hand sweeping the hair back from his forehead while the other forced the last spoons into the overflowing silverware tray. "Uh… I don't know." He looked around, too, though Castiel wasn't sure what he was looking for, as Dean had disappeared from the kitchen almost as soon as the meal was over. "He was wolfing down another piece of pie and talking about some movie he thought you had. But it's Dean, so…" Sam left off with a shrug, the thought unfinished, but Bobby nodded all the same, leaning back against the lip of the counter with one eye squinted in an absent glare.

"Probably hiding out until cleanup's finished." The older hunter's gaze wandered to Castiel, and the angel stared back at him, scrubbing splattered drops of gravy slowly from the stovetop; Castiel had assumed his rag technique was at least passable, since Sam hadn't said anything about it. Bobby didn't either, just watched him for a moment with meditative eyes before turning away and bending to pick up the white trash bag next to the sink. "Well, I'm taking this out. Thanks for doing the kitchen, you two."

Sam lifted his head again, managing a more genuine smile this time. "Sure, Bobby."

Castiel said nothing, but he listened to Bobby's footsteps as the older hunter vanished down the hallway, and then stepped onto the back porch, the screen door slamming closed behind him. The angel wiped up the last of the gravy and dropped his rag into the sink, and when he turned back to Sam he found him standing with one hand on the half-closed door of the dishwasher, staring down at the rows of glinting plates. Sam looked up and caught him staring, and sent him a little smile.

"It's almost full. Just wondering what to do with this." With his free hand, he lifted something from the counter beside him—Castiel realized that it was the glass pie pan, two slices of pie still huddled on one side and flakes of golden crust clinging to the rest of the rim. Sam tipped the pan up and twisted it around, considering the pie from a new angle. "I know Dean loved this so much he was considering starting a new religion, but I feel like maybe I should just throw it out before he downs the last two pieces and spends the rest of the night hunched over the toilet."

Castiel looked at the pie, and then up at Sam again, studying the thoughtful crinkle hovering above his nose. The angel pressed his lips together. "Dean has eaten a great deal already," he said after a long moment. "And if he is truly… hiding out… perhaps he doesn't deserve any more pie."

Sam gave a surprised laugh, his breath a little short like the sound had startled him. "Yeah. Well, you're right—he'd probably have that coming." Even as he spoke, though, Sam reached up into the cabinet above the sink and pulled out a plastic container, tipping the pie pan up so that the last two pieces of pie slid reluctantly into the Tupperware. Castiel watched him snap the red plastic lid in place and edge the pie pan into the dishwasher. He caught Sam's eyes as the dishwasher door snapped shut.

"You are kind," Castiel said. His companion only blinked, but Castiel reached out toward him slowly, watching the swirl of all those indecipherable human emotions through hazel eyes as he picked up the Tupperware and pulled the refrigerator open. The appliance was mostly full, but he found room for the pie on top of the leftover green beans. Once his hands were empty, he turned back to Sam and offered him a tiny smile, just a quirk at one corner of his mouth. "Perhaps Dean will be thankful for that," he added. Sam ducked his head, a similar smile tugging at his lips.

"Listen, Cas. I know that this holiday probably wasn't what you expected… actually, I guess I have no idea what you expected," Sam amended, glancing up again as a shrug rolled through his shoulders. "And I know that we have sort of a crazy, free-for-all thing going on, with too much grabbing and squabbling and… Dean's a jerk, and… but I just…"

Sam stopped abruptly and bit the inside of his cheek, one hand tightening on the edge of the counter. Castiel watched him in silence, waiting for the end of that sentence. Then Sam took a step toward him, and then another, his shoes sliding soundlessly over the worn wooden floorboards. He closed the distance between them until he was close enough to slip his arms around Castiel's neck, folding them to rest against the angel's shoulder blades as Sam bent forward and dropped his head onto Castiel's collarbone, and then he just stayed that way, leaning into the angel and pressing his forehead against the wrinkled fabric of the trench coat. Castiel felt his heartbeat stutter in his ears. Sam had reached out to him before, embraced him before, in relief or greeting, for comfort and reassurance—but never in a way that felt as intimate as this: head down, face pillowed in his shoulder, Sam draped over him as if surrendering, or perhaps just giving in. Somehow Castiel had the sense that he was the only thing holding Sam up. He lifted one hand and pressed it into the center of Sam's back, tracing the soft furrow of his spine through the dark green fabric of his button-down.

"Sam," he said.

Sam shook his head softly, his hair just brushing the skin of Castiel's neck. "I'm really thankful that you're here, Cas," he murmured into the angel's collar. "I'm just… I'm thankful for you."

Castiel lifted his second hand to join the first one, tightening the hold into an embrace—a gentle one, because he wasn't sure if that was what Sam truly needed, or if he had misread something, somehow, misunderstood what Sam was asking for. The folds of Sam's shirt bunched under his hands and he smoothed them carefully flat again, sliding his hands down the broad plain of the taller man's back. The motion sent a shiver through Sam's body and into Castiel's, where it lingered for a moment, tingling in his fingertips. "Sam," he said again.

For a long moment, Sam didn't say anything. He simply stood where he was, breathing softly against Castiel's shoulder, the warmth of each exhale teasing the angel's skin even through three layers of fabric. Castiel held him and felt Sam's back shifting under his hands—the expansion and contraction of the lungs and the feather-light brush of his heartbeat under his skin, the flesh quivering with the effort of keeping itself alive—and realized for the first time what an astonishing feeling that was, so precious, and so fragile. What an honor it was to be entrusted with something so breakable, if only for a moment. Then Sam breathed out slowly and turned his head, just a little, just far enough that his lips brushed the angel's neck as he spoke.

"Are your wings out right now, Cas?"

Castiel felt a shiver slide down his back, his wings twitching slightly at the unexpected question. He wasn't sure why Sam had asked, or what the answer meant to him, whether Sam was asking him to take him somewhere at that moment or just asking if he could. He stumbled over what to say, how to answer a question that didn't have one and had too many all at once, because his wings were never intended to be understood by a human mind, not even one like Sam's; before he could make up his mind, Sam shifted again, erasing his previous words as he lifted his head, just enough that his exhale ghosted over Castiel's ear as he breathed out into a sigh.

"I wish I could feel them," Sam whispered, and squeezed his arms around Castiel's neck.

Castiel clenched his hands in Sam's shirt as his wings fell open at his back, hovering behind him in a whirlwind of bewildered feathers.

The screen door slammed from the hallway. Castiel turned his head slightly, glancing over his shoulder toward the entrance to the kitchen—and all of a sudden Sam was gone from his arms, standing all the way across the kitchen again and wiping a scatter of pie crumbs into the sink. Castiel stumbled over the transition, his mind struggling to comprehend the sudden emptiness of his arms, the abruptly useless wings still unbound and puzzled at his back. He hadn't managed to drop his hands yet when Bobby appeared in the doorway, and the older hunter gave him a look, a question obviously on his tongue. Sam cut in before he could speak, snapping the dishwasher closed for the second time and straightening with one hand pushing his hair back from his face.

"Hey. Bobby. Normal setting okay for these?"

Bobby's gaze shifted to Sam, his eyes narrowing as he glanced between him and the dishwasher. "Yeah," Bobby said, leaning one shoulder heavily against the door frame. He looked as if he might have asked his question anyway, his features pinched into the suspicious lines of a man far too used to dealing with Winchester evasiveness—but footsteps on the stairs to the ground floor distracted them all at that moment, and Castiel managed to return to himself enough to drop his arms before Dean rocketed into the kitchen from the living room, his mouth open in a grin and a gray DVD box in his hand.

"Hey, Sammy. Found it," Dean announced, raising his eyebrows and waving the box between his thumb and forefinger. Sam barely glanced at him over his shoulder, very busy checking that the dishwasher was properly closed and then finally turning the machine on.

"Dean, I couldn't even tell what movie you were talking about. Your mouth was full of pie. But I swear, if it's porn—"

"It's not," Dean broke in, somehow managing to look offended and undeniably guilty at the same time. "It's an action movie, geez. Don't get your panties in a twist. I don't watch porn with other dudes, Sam." Sam sent him a passing glare and Dean paused in the middle of a breath, frowning a little as he tugged on one earlobe. "Okay, that didn't come out quite right—but my offer stands. Bloodshed, badassery, and not a single chick-flick moment. So make us some popcorn and then meet us in the living room. Cas and I'll get the DVD going—right, Cas?"

"I…" Castiel frowned, wrinkles of confusion bothering his forehead. His wings were still flickering uncertainly at his back, his hands tingling from the remembered warmth of being pressed to Sam's shoulder blades; in his mind he still hadn't untangled how he'd gotten from that moment to this one, with so much space around him and only one heartbeat pounding under his skin. He glanced over at Sam, searching for something, anything, just an acknowledgment that the other man had been wrapped around him only moments before, breathing against his ear—but Sam's attention was on Dean now, his only expression revulsion mixed with a little disbelief.

"How can you even think about eating right now?" Sam asked. Dean just shrugged and offered his brother a cocky smile.

"It's a gift. And extra butter this time, got it?" Sam rolled his eyes, so Dean spun to face the other end of the kitchen, one thumb gesturing over his shoulder toward the living room. "Bobby? Up for a little violence to get rid of all those fuzzy Thanksgiving feelings?"

Bobby snorted under his breath. "I'm going to bed. You boys can do what you want." He glanced once more at Sam, and then at Castiel, standing alone in the middle of the kitchen—then he turned and made his exit down the hallway toward the stairs, shaking his head even before Dean issued his parting shout.

"You're getting old, Bobby. And you're missing out!" Dean called. He didn't seem particularly concerned about it, though, his attention shifting from Bobby's retreating back to Castiel as a grin that showed far too many teeth took possession of his face. "Come on, Cas. Let's see if we can teach you how to use the DVD player. This is an important skill, man—life-or-death stuff, I'm telling you."

Castiel hesitated. His wings were finally coming to order at his back once more, the feathers no longer unsettled, no longer waiting for something that had ceased to exist—but all the same he couldn't help looking over at Sam, the plastic wrap around the bag of microwave popcorn crinkling under the tall hunter's steady hands.

"Sam," Castiel tried, not even sure what he was asking.

Sam lifted his head until their eyes met. He opened his mouth for a moment, but in the end he didn't say anything, just pressed his lips slowly back together into a dim, unreadable smile. Then there was an elbow crooked around the angel's neck, jerking him toward the living room, and Castiel fought down a stab of resentment he hadn't known he was capable of, every scrap of his being rising up against how different Dean's touch felt than Sam's.

"Cas. Come on already," Dean pressed, rolling his eyes. "He'll be coming in like two minutes. I'm pretty sure we can find the couch without him."

Castiel glanced at Sam a final time, back turned, working the buttons on the microwave. The angel frowned. Then he capitulated and let Dean drag him into the living room, wondering what kind of a moment that had been—Sam leaning into him, breathing into him, his heart beating under his hands—and what he could do to make it last longer next time.

 

.x.

There was a certain comfort to sleeping on the couch in Bobby's living room. Bobby's house wasn't small, even if it sometimes felt unavoidably cramped with the older hunter and two Winchesters bunking under the same hand-patched tar-and-shingle roof—but Bobby had long since outfitted the dilapidated farmhouse to accommodate the Winchesters and other visitors, and Sam knew that if he pried himself up out of the well-worn divot where the couch back ended and the seat began, he had a guest room all to himself just up the stairs, replete with a slightly lopsided bed and a scratchy brown comforter that had always been his, when they stayed at Bobby's. But in spite of the mattress that was only about an inch and a half too short and the comforting sound of Dean snoring from the next room over, one of those irritating, low-pitched whistles that was somehow aggravating and deeply soothing at the same time, Sam had just always preferred the couch. Maybe it was Pavlovian—his lizard brain seeking out the spongy fortress where he'd holed up watching endless old crime dramas unfold on the slightly green-tinged TV while he recovered from strep, and fevers, and bad dreams, and sometimes even loneliness. Or maybe it was just that unlike the guest room, this room was lived in, full of memories.

Bobby was by no means an exceptionally messy person, but Sam had noticed over the years that things tended to just accumulate on every available surface of the older hunter's house—many of them left by Sam and Dean themselves. Books, knick-knacks, unwashed dishes with forgotten residue clinging to the rims, coffee cups in every variety from chipped to cracked to patched hidden through the stacks of belongings like an out-of-season Easter egg hunt. Sam loved it all—even loved rolling over on the couch, where he had drifted off after the movie, only to end up with an errant Sharpie digging into his side where it had stabbed up from between the couch cushions. He set it on the overflowing coffee table, and then listened through sleep-clogged ears as it promptly rolled off onto the floor, taking some kind of marble with it. Sam idly hoped it would be Dean and not Bobby who took the marble in the soft arch of their foot in the morning, but he didn't have the energy to get up and do anything about it.

He was in that peaceful space between waking and sleeping, just drifting in the warmth and the fullness when the light rustle of wings whispered through the silence of the living room, no louder than the hiss of pages being turned, the scratch of paper teasing at blunt corners. Something brushed against his arm, and for a moment Sam thought maybe it was the down of soft feathers, but then he felt the weight of the fleece as it was tucked carefully around him by the strongest and gentlest hands Sam had ever known.

All at once he was back in the kitchen, swept away by the moment and the awkward, domestic angel trying to fit pie into a full refrigerator, and even though Sam had twenty-four years of practice fighting what he really wanted, he just hadn't been able to help himself, hadn't been able to stop his traitorous, wayward feet from carrying him forward into Castiel's arms. Sam had never held onto anything tighter, at least not in his heart. He honestly wasn't sure what would have happened if Bobby hadn't come back in right then—and that was the problem. Wanting was one thing, but reaching out for Cas had always been across the line he'd drawn for himself, kneeling in cold sand with those strong, gentle fingers entwined with his. Sam just wasn't sure when the line had gotten so damn close that it was licking the tips of his toes.

The edge of the couch dipped slightly, and through the haze that was half sleep and all dreams Sam felt Castiel's fingers brush over the hem of the blanket once and then settle onto the haggard cushion right beside his hand, only inches away—still, after all this time, such a complicated distance. And he wasn't entirely sure why he didn't just look up at the angel, whisper that name reverently into the dark—except that there had to be rules, or Sam wouldn't be able to make his heart fall in line any longer. Castiel was an angel of the Lord, his brother's guardian angel, one of the beautiful warriors of God—not a being meant for a simple human, and certainly never for someone like him. But no matter how many times Sam told himself that, beat it into the walls around his fuzzy, sleep-socked brain, he couldn't stop himself from curling into the warmth of the blanket, and letting his hand slide out until there were only millimeters between their fingertips. Part of him wondered why Cas let him get away with this, because the angel had to know he was awake, and Sam knew that he knew, and on and on, but the angel didn't say anything.

Castiel's wings were the most beautiful things Sam had never seen, he knew—just like he knew he would hold onto that precious moment in the kitchen, and the feel of the angel, and make it last forever somehow.

By the time he drifted off again, his fingers had already closed the distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to everyone who's been reading the Other Guardian 'verse so far. I hope you've all enjoyed reading our vision of Sam and Cas's developing relationship.
> 
> This story was sort of the precursor to a very long Christmas story called "Home for the Holidays." This story will finally actually be slash in its later chapters. The first chapter will be posted on Saturday, Nov. 30th, and then there will be a new chapter every day until December 25th, so please keep checking back all the time. This story ranges from very funny to very dark, action and horror to family love and romance, and takes the Other Guardian 'verse to the (almost) end of Sam and Cas's love story.
> 
> Teaser: Castiel comes to the Winchesters, telling them of an unknown threat rising and the disappearance of mysterious holy bells. Sam and Dean set up camp in Boulder, Colorado, and go in search of the bells. Every day brings Sam and Castiel closer, their relationship hovering at the last step between friendship and love. But dark forces are rising in the city at the foot of the mountains, and soon it's a race to collect the bells before the powers of Hell tear Sam and Castiel apart forever.
> 
> Thanks for reading in advance!


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